Lars Kepler - The Fire Witness

At ten past seven, Flora realizes that no one else is coming. There are nine people seated around the table. It’s the highest number yet, but not enough to pay back the money she’s taken from Ewa. Her legs are shaking as she pulls out a chair and sits down. The conversation stops and everyone looks at her.

Flora lights the candles on the tray and then lets her gaze wander over the participants. She’s met five of them before. The others are new. Directly across from her, there’s a man who looks barely thirty. His face is open and handsome in a boyish way.

“Welcome,” she begins. “Welcome to our séance. I believe we should get started right away.”

“Yes, indeed,” old Asker says.

“Take each other’s hands and close the circle,” Flora commands in a warm, friendly way.

The young man is looking directly at her. He’s smiling and obviously curious. A feeling of excitement and expectation begins to flutter in Flora’s stomach. For several minutes, there is only silence. It feels powerful and dark. Ten people have made a circle and they can sense the dead arriving behind their backs.

“Don’t break the circle,” Flora cautions the group. “No matter what happens, don’t break the circle. Our visitors might not find their way back to the other side.”

Her guests are so old that most of their relatives and friends have already died. Death is a country with many well-known faces.

“Never ask the date of your own death,” Flora continues. “And never ask about the Devil.”

“Why not?” asks the young man, smiling.

“Not every spirit is good, and the circle is just a gateway to the other side.”

The young man’s black eyes shine.

“Demons?” he asks.

“I don’t believe in demons,” Dina Sibelius says. She sounds nervous.

“I keep watch on the gate as best as I can,” Flora says. “But all the spirits feel our warmth, see our lights.”

Everyone is silent again. There’s a noise in the pipes — an odd, busy buzzing as if a fly is caught in a spiderweb.

“Are you ready?” Flora asks gently.

The participants all nod, and Flora is pleased by how serious they seem. She thinks she can hear their hearts beating and their blood pulsing through the circle.

“Now I’m going into a trance.”

Flora holds her breath and presses Asker Sibelius’s hand as well as the hand of one of the new women. She keeps her eyes closed and waits as long as she can, fighting the impulse to breathe until she starts to shake. Then she takes a deep breath and fills her lungs.

“We have many visitors from the other side tonight,” Flora says after a few moments.

The participants who have been here before hum in agreement.

Flora senses the young man is looking at her. She feels his watchful, interested gaze on her cheeks, her hair, her neck.

She lowers her face and thinks she should begin with Violet so that the young man will be convinced. Flora knows Violet’s history but up to now has let her wait. Violet Larsen is a terribly lonely person. She lost her only son fifty years ago when he became ill with meningitis and no hospital would admit him for fear of infection. Violet’s husband had driven the boy from hospital to hospital the entire night. When dawn came, the boy died in his arms. Violet’s husband broke down in grief and died a few years later. One terrible night had eliminated the woman’s happiness for the rest of her life.

Flora opens her eyes.

“Violet,” she whispers.

The old woman turns hungrily toward Flora.

“Yes?”

“I have a child here, a child who is holding the hand of a grown man.”

“What are their names?” Violet asks. Her voice trembles.

“Their names are... The boy says you used to call him Jusse.”

Violet gasps. “It’s my little Jusse,” she whispers.

“The man, he says that you know who he is. You are his beautiful flower.”

Violet nods and smiles. “That’s my Albert.”

“They have a message for you, Violet,” Flora continues. “They say that they follow you day and night so that you are never alone.”

A large tear runs down Violet’s cheek.

“The boy asks you not to be sad. Mamma, he is saying, Mamma, I am fine. Pappa is with me all the time.”

“I miss you so much,” Violet says.

“I can see the boy,” Flora whispers. “He is standing next to you. He is touching your cheek.”

Violet is crying quietly and the room is silent. Flora is waiting for the tea light to ignite the strontium salts, but it’s taking its time.

She mumbles to herself and wonders which person she should choose next. She closes her eyes and sways her upper body.

“So many here. So many here,” she mutters. “They’re crowding at the small gate. I feel their presence. They are longing to talk to you.”

She falls silent as the candle begins to sparkle.

“Don’t crowd at the gate,” she says.

The candle suddenly flashes a red flame and someone in the room screams.

“You are not invited,” Flora says sternly. She waits until the flame dies down. “Now I would like to speak with the man wearing glasses. Yes, please come closer. What is your name?”

She appears to listen inwardly. “You are telling me that you want things to be as they were.” Flora looks at her guests. “He says he wants things as they always were. Skinless sausage and boiled potatoes.”

“It’s my Stig!” says the woman holding Flora’s hand.

“It’s hard to hear what he is saying,” Flora continues. “There are so many people here. They keep interrupting him.”

“Stig,” the woman whispers.

“He says forgive me. He wants you to forgive him.”

Flora feels the woman shaking.

“I have already forgiven you,” she whispers.

After the séance, Flora sends her guests off with a brief farewell. She knows that people like to be alone with their fantasies and memories.

She walks around the room slowly, blowing out the candles and returning the chairs to their original positions. She is pleased that everything has gone so well. Then she goes to the entryway, where she’s placed a box for contributions, and counts the money inside. Next week is her final spiritual evening and her last chance to recover the money she’s taken from Ewa. Too few people came in spite of her ad in Fenomen . She’s started to lie awake at night and stare into the darkness dry-eyed, wondering what she’s going to do. When Ewa pays her bills at the end of the month, she’s going to realize that the money is missing.

The rain has stopped by the time she gets outside. The sky is black, and the reflections of streetlights and neon signs glitter on the wet pavement. Flora locks the door and slips the key into the mailbox for Carlén Antiques. She takes down her cardboard sign and stuffs it into her bag, then notices that someone is standing in the doorway one building down. It’s the young man who attended the séance. He takes a step toward her and smiles apologetically.

“Hi, I was wondering... Could I ask you out for a glass of wine or something?”

“Not possible,” she says, feeling her usual shyness.

“You were really great,” he says.

Flora has no idea what she should say. Her face colors more and more the longer he looks at her.

“It’s just that I’m going to Paris,” she lies.

“Would I be able to ask you a few questions?”

She realizes that he must be a journalist from one of the newspapers she’s tried to contact.

“I’m leaving really early tomorrow,” she says.

“Just half an hour, no more,” he says.

As they cross the street to the nearest bistro, he tells her that his name is Julian Borg and he writes for the magazine Nära .